 | The Ballad of Babie Bell And Other Poems |  |
56
L'ENVOI.
Men turn to angels when dead.
A thought grows into a Song:
Every thing ripens with time,
Or I and my rhyme are wrong.
A thought grows into a Song:
Every thing ripens with time,
Or I and my rhyme are wrong.
The May-moon blossomed, and grew,
And withered, the flower full-blown;
But out of the ruined moon
The beautiful June has grown!
And withered, the flower full-blown;
But out of the ruined moon
The beautiful June has grown!
O ye Poets that sit i' the sun,
Your brows with the laurel moist,
When shall I sit and sing with you,
Sweet-thoughted and silver-voiced?
Your brows with the laurel moist,
When shall I sit and sing with you,
Sweet-thoughted and silver-voiced?
| The Ballad of Babie Bell And Other Poems | |